On the day she rode with Erlend to the anchorage at Birgsi, she couldn’t feel either fearful or sad. She was almost intoxicated with him and with his joy and high spirits.
At that time she didn’t know she was already carrying another child. When she felt unwell she had thought . . . Erlend was so exuberant, there had been so much commotion and drinking at home, and Naakkve was sucking the strength out of her. When she felt the new life stir inside her, she was . . . She had been looking forward to the winter, to traveling to town and around the valley with her bold and handsome husband; she was young and beautiful herself. She had planned to wean the boy by autumn; it was troublesome always having to take him and the nursemaid along wherever she went. She was certain that in this Russian campaign Erlend would prove fit for something other than ruining his name and his property. No, she had not been glad, and she told this to Sira Eiliv. Then the priest had reprimanded her quite sternly for her unloving and worldly disposition. And all summer long she had tried to be happy and to thank God for the new child she was to have, and for the good reports she heard about Erlend’s courageous actions in the north.
Then he returned home just before Michaelmas. And she saw that he was not pleased when he realized what was to come. He said as much that evening.
“I thought that when I finally had you, it would be like celebrating Christmas every day. But now it seems that there will be mostly long periods of fasting.”
Every time she thought about this, the blood would rush to her face, just as hot as on that evening when she turned away from him, flushing deep red and shedding no tears. Erlend had tried to make amends with love and kindness. But she couldn’t forget it. The fire inside her, which all her tears of remorse had been unable to extinguish and all her fear of sin could not smother—it was as if Erlend had stomped it out with his foot when he said those words.
Late that night they sat in front of the fireplace in Gunnulf’s house—the priest and Kristin and Orm. A jug of wine and a few small goblets stood at the edge of the hearth. Master Gunnulf had suggested several times that his guests ought to seek rest. But Kristin begged to stay sitting there a little longer.
“Do you remember, brother-in-law,” she said, “that I once told you that the priest back home at J?rundgaard counseled me to enter a cloister if Father would not give his consent for Erlend to marry me?”
Gunnulf glanced involuntarily at Orm. But Kristin said with a wry little smile, “Do you think this grown-up boy doesn’t know that I’m a weak and sinful woman?”
Master Gunnulf replied softly, “Did you feel a yearning for the life of a nun back then, Kristin?”
“No doubt God would have opened my eyes once I had decided to serve Him.”
“Perhaps He thought that your eyes needed to be opened so you would learn that you ought to serve Him wherever you are. Your husband, children, and the servants at Husaby need to have a faithful and patient servant woman of God living among them and tending to their welfare.
“Of course the maiden who makes the best marriage is the one who chooses Christ as her bridegroom and refuses to give herself to a sinful man. But the child who has already done wrong . . .”
“ ‘I wish that you could have come to God with your wreath,’ ” whispered Kristin. “That’s what he said to me, Brother Edvin Rikardss?n, the monk I’ve often told you about. Do you feel the same way?”
Gunnulf Nikulauss?n nodded. And yet many a woman has pulled herself up from a life of sin with such strength that we dare pray for her intercession. But this happened more often in the past, when she was threatened with torture and fire and glowing tongs if she called herself a Christian. I have often thought, Kristin, that back then it was easier to tear oneself away from the bonds of sin, when it could be done forcefully and all at once. And yet we humans are so corrupt—but courage is by nature present in the heart of many, and courage is what often drives a soul to seek God. The torments have incited just as many people to faithfulness as they have frightened others into apostasy. But a young, lost child who is torn from sinful desire even before she has learned to understand what it has brought upon her soul—a child placed in an order of nuns among pure maidens who have given themselves up to watch over and pray for those who are asleep out in the world . . .
“I wish it would soon be summer,” he said suddenly and stood up.
The other two looked at him in amazement.
“Oh, I happened to think about when the cuckoo was singing on the slopes in the morning back home at Husaby. First we would hear the one on the ridge to the east, behind the buildings, and then the other would reply from far off, in the woods close to By. It sounded so lovely out across the lake in the stillness of the morning. Don’t you think it’s beautiful at Husaby, Kristin?”
“The cuckoo in the east is the cuckoo of sorrow,” said Orm Er lendss?n quietly. “Husaby seems to me the fairest manor in the world.”
The priest placed his hands on his nephew’s narrow shoulders for a moment.
“I thought so too, kinsman. It was my father’s estate for me too. The youngest son stands no closer to inheriting the ancestral farm than you do, dear Orm!”
“When Father was living with my mother, you were the closest heir,” said the young boy in the same quiet voice.
“We’re not to blame, Orm—my children and I,” said Kristin sorrowfully.
“You must have noticed that I bear you no rancor,” he replied softly.
“It’s such an open, wide landscape,” said Kristin after a moment. “You can see so far from Husaby, and the sky is so . . . so vast. Where I come from, the sky is like a roof above the mountain slopes. The valley lies sheltered, round and green and fresh. The world seems just the right size—neither too big nor too small.” She sighed and her hands began fidgeting in her lap.
“Was his home there—the man your father wanted you to marry?” asked the priest, and Kristin nodded.
“Do you ever regret that you refused to have him?” he then asked, and she shook her head.
Gunnulf went over and pulled a book from the shelf. He sat down near the fire again, opened the clasps, and began turning the pages. But he didn’t read; he sat with the open book on his lap.
“When Adam and his wife had defied God’s will, then they felt in their own flesh a power that defied their will. God had created them, man and woman, young and beautiful, so that they would live together in marriage and give birth to other heirs who would receive the gifts of His goodness: the beauty of the Garden of Eden, the fruit of the tree of life, and eternal happiness. They didn’t need to be ashamed of their bodies because as long as they were obedient to God, their whole body and all of their limbs were under the command of their will, just as a hand or a foot is.”
Blushing blood-red, Kristin folded her hands under her breast. The priest bent toward her slightly; she felt his strong amber eyes on her lowered face.
“Eve stole what belonged to God, and her husband accepted it when she gave him what rightfully was the property of their Father and Creator. They wanted to be His equal—and they noticed that the first way in which they became His equal was this: Just as they had betrayed His dominion over the great world, so too was their dominion betrayed over the small world, the soul’s house of flesh. Just as they had forsaken their Lord God, the body would now forsake its master, the soul.
“Then these bodies seemed to them so hideous and hateful that they made clothes to cover them. First a short apron of fig leaves. But as they became more and more familiar with their own carnal nature, they drew the clothes up over their heart and their back, which is unwilling to bend. Until today, when men dress themselves in steel all the way to their fingertips and toes and hide their faces behind the grids of their helmets. In this way unrest and deceit have grown in the world.”